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ID you ever hear of Captain Wattle?
bottle, We know not, though pains we have ta’en to in
quire, If gunpowder he invented, or the Thames set on If to him was the centre of gravity known, The longitude, or the philosopher's stone; Or whether he studied from Bacon or Boyle, Copernicus, Locke, Katterfelto, or Hoyle; But this we have learnt, with great labour and pain, That he loved Miss Roe, and she lov'd him again.
Than sweet Miss Roe none ever look'd fiercer,
When wedded, he became lord and master, de
pend on't; He had butone leg, but he'd a foot at the end on't, Which, of government when she would faiu hold
the bridle, Ile took special caution, should never lie idle: & 3
So, like most married folks, 'twas my plague, and
my chicken, And sometimes a-kissing, and sometimes a-kicking, Then, for comfort, a cordial she'd now and then
try, Alternately piping or bunging her eye; And these facts of this couple does the history
contain, When he kick'd Mrs. Wattle, slie kick'd him
My friend is the man I would copy through
life; He harbours no envy, he causés no strife: No murmurs escape him, though fortune bears
Still happy in his station,
Nor heeds the snares,
Nor knows the cares,
Nightly, singing cheerily;
He seeks no idle squabble,
To clear his way, will
When he siniles, 'tis merrily; Dear to him his sport, his toil, his honour, and his friend. butos por un via
25 sbet How charming to find, in his humble retreat, That bliss so much sought, so unknown to the great ; His wife only anxious her fondness to prove The playful endearmeuts of infantine love.
Relaxing from his labours,
Amid his welcome neighbours,
The happy hero see!
All his joys surrounding him, Dear he holds his native land, its laws and liberty.
Morbi IN the down-hill of life, when I find I'm de
, May my fate no less fortunate be, Than a snug elbow-chair, can afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea: With an ambling pad poney to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow, And, blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward, with hope, for to-morrow.
With a porch at my door, both for shelter and
shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail; With a small spot of ground, for the use of the
spade too, And a barn, for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse wlien a friend wants to borrow, I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,
Or what honours may wait him to-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be
completely Secur'd by a neighbouring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more
sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill; And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends I will share what to-day inay
afford, And let them spread the table to-morrow. And when I at last must throw off this frail cor'r
ing, Which I've worn for three score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep
hov'ring, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again : But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
And with smiles,count each wrinkle and furrow, As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare
to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.
To Comus's Hall we choice spirits invite,
The moments to pass in a round of delight; With a song and a buinper their humour unlock, Norcare for old Time though he point to the clock: But toast ev'ry beauty kind-hearted and free, For such, such alone, are the lasses for me. Then come, come away, no longer delay; Mirth, friendship, and wine, shall their charms
all display. Jolly Bacchus with Comus, will come at our call, And kiudly attend us at Comus's Hall; No care will disturb us with maxims abroad, But pleasure be present, and wit point each word; That happiness may ev'ry moment prolony, With a joke, and a laugh, and the heart-lifting
song. Apollo with music the whole shall inspire, And the music repeat what each heart can desire; While grateful oblations we make to the skies, And the incense of rapture alike shall arise: Ally'd to no party, we fear no controul, But cheerfully circle the bottle and bowl.
W Ꮃ ITH lowly suit and plaintive ditty,
I call the tender mind to pity: My friends are goue, my heart is beating, And chilling poverty's my lot ;